The moody effects and oblique lyrical affectations quickly wear thin. [May 2007, p.88]

Despite these fine individual performances, Everything Was Beautiful, And Nothing Hurt overall is an interminable slog.

Velocifero's grinding soundscapes (honed in part by Alessandro Cortini of Nine Inch Nails) are easy to admire.... Too bad there's rarely much of anything going on below the surface.

Stripped of cheap but effective lo-fi tricks, Mysterious Phonk is meandering and moronic.

While all that harmony is good for revving your sugar motor, no conflict means no relief, just repeated shots of childlike cheer with no chaser. [Mar 2007, p.94]

This band has never made an out-and-out bad album, but now it has made an uninspired one.

This disconnect between Jesus Piece's gambit and its execution, between Game's intention and the raps served up by his guests, results in the headliner being reduced to a mere spectator on too much of his own album.

The resulting cavalcade of "decent bits" seldom leaves an imprint in your memory, let alone your heart. [Nov 2001, p.130]

There's a lot of Conor the Character Actor in these folk-rock set pieces. [Nov 2006, p.96]

The Pale Emperor plods inoffensively from start to finish with moderate gloom and a similar level of hooks.

This is a concept/protest record about Monsanto, and unless your blood boils as intensely about the issue as Young’s, the protest element of that is handled so clumsily that it sinks the album entirely.

Compared to the band's clever early hits, the songwriting too often lapses into clunkiness.

aside from the nicely scuffed 'Dirt on Your New Shoes,' a general lack of spark or lyrical acuity makes even the album's catchiest songs of predestination ('The Ancient Commonsense of Things'), passive-aggression ('Don't Hide Away'), and whimsy ('Cue the Elephants') register as little more than charming diversions.

As with latter efforts Jar of Flies and Alice in Chains, Black's most tender moments ('Private Hell') are its most essential. And while William DuVall is a serviceable Staley impressionist, this comeback would register with more purpose had guitarist Jerry Cantrell assumed the vocal lead.

It’s a record full of fits and starts, baffling successes and giggly failures.

While Temple's hermaphroditic alto endures the costume changes, the songs often don't, and the couple of undeniably great tracks -- like the rigid, kinetic "Collector" -- get lost in the parade of influences.

Key elements--shy vocals, shimmery guitar--remain from the Kadanes' previous band, slow-core pioneers Bedhead, though Matt now actually enunciates the band's diary entries.

Almost every musical style imaginable is crushed into this three-and-a-half minute, something-for-everyone product... But No Doubt's newfound introspection is a tad hard to swallow-

Except for standouts “Barbie Dreams,” “Good Form,” and “Chun-Li,” Queen is full of songs that Nicki has more or less done previously and in better ways. It’s not that Nicki has become a worse rapper (“Lara been Croft” jokes aside) or that the production is bad, it’s that everything here is only adequate--nothing pops, no chances are taken, and there isn’t any notable magic in these records.

Any distinction between "Dry Your Eyes" (which sneers, "Don't pretend to cry") and "The Revelator" (which offers moral support in hard times) is erased by the band's numbing grandiosity.

Vermont residents Matt Valentine and Erika Elder exhibit signs of creeping dementia on Drone Trailer. With his piercing whine and wheezy harmonica, Valentine suggests a damaged, decomposing clone of acoustic Neil Young.

He's got many peaceful, breezy songs about peaceful, easy feelings but lacks the hooks to hang 'em on. [Jun 2003, p.109]

Between Pitts' unrelieved misery and the tepid music, Pythons makes a bitter, unsatisfying brew. Imbibe at your own risk.

Frontman Adam Lazzara's temper tantrums sound more sore- than full-throated, but they still freeze blood for short stretches, while the revolving choruses are as enormous and polished as Boeings.

A mod-rock mix that's somewhere--no, everywhere--between Matchbox Twenty and 'So.' [Apr 2001, p.154]

...melds Billy Joel and James Taylor... [Apr 2001, p.161]

With contributions from various of-the-moment producers (TV on the Radio's Dave Sitek, Santigold's John Hill), the Brooklyn boho's major-label debut is a painfully hip slice of style-mag electro-soul.

While his guitar remains ulceric, songs such as 'The Ballad of Charley Harper' stew rather than combust.